


Easy

by rosereddawn



Category: Wolverine (2009), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Car Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:38:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosereddawn/pseuds/rosereddawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gambit picks up Wolverine on his home from a winning spree in Las Vegas. Set couple of years past Wolverine Origins. Thanks to reapertownusa for beta-reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy

She was a sweet, ice blue Corvette, manufactured in '69, a convertible with black leather seats and polished chrome interior. The businessman that Remy had won her from – in a perfectly honest game, of course – had made sure to keep her in impeccable shape, so shiny and clean that Remy suspected she'd never seen the road before. Gem of the collection, she'd probably been sitting in some garage; pretty thing to be looked at, wiped clean by a housekeeper every morning instead of letting the road taint her.

Remy grinned and fondly petted the dashboard, somehow satisfied by the thought that he was the one to take her on her maiden voyage. And what a road he'd chosen for her.

Arizona lay bleak and dry in the desert heat, midday sun bleaching the palette of sand, rock and stone. The road cut clean through, wide open and empty, and the engine was purring and the wind tugging on his hair like an invitation to push the gas pedal just a little more. This was where a Corvette belonged, out to play, not locked away inside.

Remy was taking her back to town, a thousand miles across, to where the heat was damp and paint came peeling off old house corners; home to where he knew his ground.

He might know how to move along smoke and blinding lights, the world of forgery concealed by utter perfection that Vegas was. He might have mastered the art of playing the dreamers and snobs who threw all care out of the window once they thought they'd sensed an opportunity. And really, that's all Remy did: seized opportunities. It wasn't his fault that money and Corvettes were basically being forced on him.

But he also knew not to stay too long. A man as close to Fortuna's bosom as his own glorious self inevitably acquired a couple of enemies. The ones he already had, the ones set on either ripping his ass a new one or shoving him back into a tiny cage to do some lab rat experiments, well, those were enough, thank you very much. He could do without the bruised ego of some billionaire chasing after him. Besides, the world was small, word got around too quickly and suddenly the guy handing him the keys might turn out to know a certain colonel or mutant from Three Mile Island.

No, Remy was having none of that. He payed his trips to Vegas, played a couple of rounds at the casinos – always equipped with a drink to his left, a well-endowed lady to his right and a Queen up his sleeve – and got out before trouble could catch up with him. A man had to make a living somehow after all and Vegas was known to provide. Past were the days when he had been struggling to make it 'til morning. Now he was flying, gasoline-fueled.

 

* * *

 

Around lunchtime, when Remy pulled up at a gas station to fill the tank and his own stomach too, he noticed him the first time: leather jacket thrown lazily over the saddle, patch of unruly hair lurking above, and between the tires a glimpse of jeans kneeling in the dirt as he was working on the bike. Remy, having learned to rely on his instincts the hard way, didn't need more to know they'd met.

He held a step, thinking. Under the burning sun, though, thoughts kept drifting, merging to a lulling buzz in the back of his head, and he enjoyed the comfort too much to start digging. Certain that there was no old score to be settled, because he did keep tight track of those, he allowed himself to let it slide.

Still, better be safe than sorry. He jumped into the Corvette without opening the door and drove off, mind set on dismissal.

 

* * *

 

The road was a straight line stretching from one horizon to the other and the black dot in the rear view mirror persistent. Only when Remy stopped to piss out the coffee from lunch by the wayside, it started to grow bigger, until the staccato tact of the bike's engine rose to the deafening volume of a jackhammer, drowning out the crackling under the Chevy's hood and the sighs of wiry grass in the occasional breeze.

Just before the bike swapped lanes to overtake, Remy caught a glance at the biker's face. He mumbled a surprised "Mais galee" and turned to watch the bike burst away until it disappeared, a black dot on a gray line somewhere in the distance. Remy kept staring.

 

* * *

 

The third time, the road was coiling around sky-high rocks glowing in the late afternoon rays. Remy only noticed the bike in passing when he went round the corner, but it was enough to recognize it and a sudden jolt shot up his spine.

One afternoon had been enough time to remember everything down to the details, even in this lazy heat. So there had been the, well, invite on a suicide mission, of all places back to exactly the one he'd sworn never to set foot on again. But there had also been that dry smirk that went with that unruly patch of hair, and the sheer force that was hidden under that leather jacket. Not that he had a thing for having his back pushed into the brick walls of Rue Bourbon – a man had his pride after all. He did have a thing, though, for anyone who set out to blow up hell on earth and actually succeeded. And well, damn him, but Remy was a curious man and that Logan fellow had always made his jeans feel a little tight. Talk about missed opportunities.

The tires squealed in protest as he hit the brakes and shifted in reserve.

Pulling up alongside, he tucked an arm over the backrest, not bothering to get out of the car, and asked, "There something you need, homme?"

Logan kicked up a red cloud of sand, settling on rubber and chrome, as he rose to his feet. "A mechanic or a lift," he replied.

Remy leaned over and flicked the passenger door open. "Mechanic ain't how I get my hands dirty."

One look back, maybe the one of sentimentalism any biker felt when abandoning their ride, and then the Corvette bucked under the additional weight in the passenger seat. The rear broke out impatiently and dust flushed the air before she jumped, finally completing that corner. Logan smirked just like Remy'd remembered.

 

* * *

 

There was something in the way he looked across, something taxing and searching, that had Remy expecting questions.

Do I know you, bub? Aren't you the-guy-who? Didn't I kick your ass back-when?

Remy had a multitude of answers ready on his tongue, only waiting for the right prompt to shoot back, bantering and teasing, but he got none. Because Logan stashed his jacket under the seat and tucked a cigar into the corner of his mouth, oblivious to the wind shrinking it faster than he could smoke, and turned his face away to watch the desert rush by. As if there was anything out there worth watching. After so many hours of crossing the same landscape, even the most awe-inducing vastness had to pall eventually.

Besides, Remy was convinced that Logan was looking in the wrong direction entirely. So he skid forward in his seat until he was slouching, knees invitingly apart, and draped one wrist on top of the steering wheel. He made sure to keep his hair out of his face, which he could do plenty with the wind rustling it up relentlessly, and he sang along to any chorus he knew, and when that made Logan look he smiled and dragged teeth and tongue over his bottom lip.

He had his own questions ready that, though he didn’t voice, asked loud and clear. Like what you see? How about a taste; don’t you want some more?

There were other questions, ones over which he'd lost more than a night's sleep. But it had been three years since they'd parted on the wreckage of that concrete battlefield and time had taken away the urge. The one answer he'd most wanted he got and for now that was good enough. He didn't need the past's shadows to spoil his moment.

Logan chewed the ending of his cigar before he discarded it and the line between his brows smoothened as he let the damn desert be.

 

* * *

 

Remy used the bathroom, opened three more buttons on his shirt and then, after critically checking himself in the mirror, closed the last one again.

Back in the diner, he propped himself on a stool, looked out through the stained windows and wondered whether it was some kind of inverted form of motion sickness that had gotten hold of him, an addiction to the blurred sideline and the constant roaring in his ears. Sure, the car was pretty to look at with the sun reflecting off metal surfaces, like liquid fire, better now that the road had left its stains. But that was nothing compared to the way she felt, and he’d rather squeeze his legs back in and sit down on his ass until it went numb, and watch nothing but road and squashed mosquitoes for the rest of the day.

Well, that or…

Logan was leaning against the counter, skimming through yesterday’s newspaper and acting perfectly unbothered. There was a dark patch in the middle of his back, probably because, for some inexplicable reason, he was wearing two layers of shirts that he’d refused to take off. The over-sized belt buckle had pushed up the undershirt an inch, just enough for a notion of thick dark body hair.

“You want to check for a mechanic?” Remy asked, nodding towards the phone booth.

Logan shrugged. “Gotta know when things are past fixing.” And that was that, and it was fine with Remy.

By the time their food arrived, Remy's fingers were drumming a nervous rhythm. He slapped some bills on the counter, probably too many, but since he could afford it he skipped both count and change. Bags in his hands he pushed through the door back first, eyes set on Logan, urging him to put the paper aside and follow.

The Corvette was refueled too, and the leather on the seats hadn’t even cooled out. One of the grease stained bags and one can of soda ended up tugged between Remy’s thighs and it just so happened that his right hand kept trailing slowly up and down his leg, and when he licked his fingers after each bite he was only making sure to keep them clean.

 

* * *

 

The food was gone, bags and cans carelessly disposed of along the way, and Remy’s stomach just the right kind of full. But despite his muscles feeling lose and malleable, worked over all day by the bumps and vibrations that the suspension hadn't compensated, he still didn't feel that bone deep contentment he was after. There was a scalding heat simmering under his skin, a nervous need that kept him agitated.

And then it happened so easily.

“Hold up,” Logan said and Remy let her roll out on the gravel.

He blinked over at Logan, waiting. The sun was setting behind him, though it hadn’t gotten any darker yet. For the past hour or two colors had rather been gaining intensity, rocks and soil flaring up in shades of orange and red. Even the road looked less traveled and worn.

“So?” Remy asked. “You getting down or what?” And when that only got him a questioningly raised eyebrow, he added, “I thought you needed a piss.”

Fine crow feet spread in the corners of Logan’s eyes when he shook his head. “Nah,” he said and then, sounding faintly like an amused adult giving in to a child’s nagging, “Come here.”

“Right here?”

“Didn't figure you for the shy type.”

Now that actually came close to an insult, and Remy busily pulled his legs up on the seat, trying not to get his knees stuck under the steering wheel. Even with the roof open, space was confined and he had to prop himself on backrest and dashboard as he climbed over.

Logan reached up and wrapped a rough, callused hand around his neck to pull him down, too fast for Remy to arrange his limbs. His left knee dropped onto Logan's thigh and then slid down until it was stuck between door and leg, and with the toes of his right foot he just about caught the edge of the seat. His hands landed on the backrest next to Logan's shoulders, but only after he'd tumbled forward, right into Logan's hold.

“There ya go,” Logan mumbled as Remy inhaled sharply, and with his face buried in the crook of Logan's neck, he could have sworn that it was through Logan's voice that he picked up the taste of cigar smoke.

Remy took another breath and another and then pressed his lips against the patch of skin just above the collar, flicked his tongue over it for more of that rich taste of a day spent in dust and sun and leather, and Logan grunted and tilted his head for better access, fingertips still digging into the sides of Remy's neck. His free hand was stroking upwards over Remy's thigh until it reached his hips where it lifted his shirt just so and then, teasingly, stayed there, fingertips tracing along the edge of his pants. Remy bucked, willing Logan to move, to touch, but Logan just tightened his grip and held him steady.

“Can drive a man crazy, you know that?”

Remy laughed softly and nuzzled the soft patch of skin, right under the curve of the jaw, playfully catching a bit with his teeth, still breathing, inhaling that scent that caused bright sparks in his belly. “Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

Logan made a low noise in his throat, satisfied apparently, and Remy did it again, biting and licking his way down the neck, letting stubble scratch his lips and salt cover his tongue. He could hear Logan's intake of breath, could feel his nose in his hair, the tightening of fingers, and then Logan pushed. Remy didn’t give straight away and the hand in his neck stroke upwards until it closed in his hair, harder than necessary and not hard enough, and pulled his head away from the warmth of skin, upwards until they were face to face.

He grunted, but it was only half complaint, and neither was it protest when he tilted his head, pretending to test Logan’s hold before he stilled, throat bare.

For the length of one perusing look, Logan's lips tightened to a hard line and there was a distance to his expression and something else that Remy couldn't quite place. It faded quickly, and Logan traced a thumb over Remy's bottom lip and pulled him in for a kiss like nothing had happened.

But Remy held back, adrenalin flushing his veins. “Something bother you?” he asked, lips brushing lips.

There was the shortest moment of hesitation before he felt the spread of Logan's uneven smile and he replied, “Ain’t none of your business.” He licked across the corner of Remy's mouth, sensation merging with the adrenalin to a hot, prickly feeling under his skin.

Admittedly, right there and then, Remy couldn't exactly bring himself to care, but he did know to guard his own neck well.

“Remy just worried you gonna change your mind, huh?” he whispered, leaning in closer, straining for contact, wanting to rub himself against Logan like a cat in heat and feel the ripple of tight muscles even through the too many layers of cotton; wanting, for good and selfish reasons, to put that mind at ease.

“Not gonna,” Logan said. His thumb slipped into Remy's mouth, hooked over the bottom row of teeth and used the hold to angle him in for another insistent kiss.

Remy blinked and then gave in, opened up and let Logan set the pace. It was pleasantly slow, nearly gentle, and he let Logan guide him, arrange him anyway he saw fit, and all that knotted want loosened up bit by bit to melt into lazy satisfaction.

Straining for comfort, Remy propped his elbows on the backrest and let his fingers slide through Logan's hair, warmed and softened by the late sun and damp at the roots. The hand on his hip finally slipped under the shirt and rubbed wide circles over belly and low parts of his ribcage, making his skin twitch. His hips bucked, cock in need of both friction and space, and as Logan let go of him to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, he wished he'd just opened them all in the diner, or better even, just discarded his entire clothing in advance. The space on the seat taken up entirely by Logan's wide frame, he didn't have the balance to let go and help getting himself out of it any quicker, and neither was there enough space for three hands in the heat between their bodies.

Logan lost his patience with the last two buttons and just slid the half open shirt down, palms brushing over his shoulders, and left it tangled around Remy's elbows. He kissed the exposed skin, sternum and pecs and caught a nipple between his teeth, mouth burning hot in the cool air, while his fingers carried on peeling him out of more layers. The button on his pants popped, the zipper eased tentatively, and only Logan's chuckles made Remy vaguely aware of the noises spilling from his throat.

“Don't keep a man waiting all day,” Remy said, mouth as dry as the desert, already shifting to catch a better stance that would allow him to lift up and get out of his pants. His foot slipped from the seat and his knee almost crashed into Logan's ribs.

“Easy there.” Logan steadied him with a quick hand.

The shoes and pants come off, but Logan's stomach and Remy's elbow met in the course, and so did the hard edge of the dashboard and the small of Remy's back. He hissed at the sting, and then again at the sensation of cool evening air on his dick. He wished Logan would finally wrap his hand around it, but instead he kept stroking the crease where legs and hips joined, over and over again, until Remy felt like crawling out of his skin.

He meant to tug on Logan's undershirt but ended up pulling, hands closed into fists. “You gonna get that off?”

“Because one time wasn't trouble enough?” Logan's smile was all too knowing when his hand, finally, closed that teasingly small distance and cut Remy's protest short.

Remy gasped, eyes fluttering shut. But Logan's grip, though warm and seeming to fit perfectly, remained light, more teasing than anything else, even as he flicked his thumb over the head, collecting the fat drop of precome. It was not enough and Remy thrust up in frustration.

Logan gave him another two long strokes, from the base right up to a twist around the head, eyes set on him the entire time, before he let go. One hand caught his neck again and Remy leaned and rubbed into it until the curve of his skull rested perfectly against its palm. Logan brought a wet thumb up to his lips and Remy took it in eagerly, hollowed his cheeks as he sucked on it and twirled his tongue and moaned as he picked up his own salty taste. Need pumped through him with every heartbeat and everything he did, every flutter of his lashes, every whimper, every accentuated roll of his hips was only meant to draw Logan in, to spark that same hunger and get Remy what he wanted so badly.

And chances were he was doing it right. “Gonna need something to slicken you up,” Logan said, thank god finally, and Remy let his finger pop out of his mouth with an obscene sound.

From the pockets of his pants that had landed somewhere under the wheel he fished out a small package of lube and was about to rip it open with his teeth, but Logan snapped it from his fingers.

“I gotcha, kid.”

He wasn’t a kid, no-one’s, had never been, and half the times he’d been sweet-talked in his life he’d reached for the stained and worn edge of a Queen, payback for the times she’d been out of reach.

But this, delivered with dry charm and a wink, this was okay. Cradled naked on Logan’s lap when he was still dressed, under a free cyan sky, this was better: this was good. And he wasn’t just playing along when he drawled, lazily and pouting, “Mais oui, papa. You gonna take care of me.”

He traced wrinkles as fine as a spider’s web around Logan’s eyes, faint signs of aging yet not a bit more profound than the last time they’d met, and then he leaned forward and placed his hands on a chest that felt twice as wide as his own, arched his back and waited for Logan to do just that.

Logan watched him, eyes hooded and heart pounding fast, as he moved. Remy heard the belt being unbuckled, the buttons of the jeans ripped open, followed by the wet flapping sound of skin over skin. A shoulder dropped and next two fingers found their way past his balls, making Remy twitch and bite at the brief contact, and then generously slickened up the crease between his cheeks. One of those fingers circled his hole and breached it, not deeper than one knuckle.

The happy moan turned into a surprised gasp when Logan didn't give him any time to adjust or indulge. He pulled out almost immediately, slipped his hands under Remy's thighs and man-handled him into position, folding him in half so his knees were up near his shoulders and one foot was dangling over the side of the door.

“Hold on,” Logan said and that was all the warning Remy got before he was hauled up as if he really was a kid and weighed nothing at all.

He muttered a flood of curses into Logan's shoulder while he clawed on to the upholstery with one hand and hurried to get the other between their bodies. Logan slid along his crack once, twice, before Remy caught the base of his cock with his fingertips and nudged it in the right direction. One hand on each cheek spreading him wide and lined up as they were, all Logan had to do was lower Remy down and he pushed in.

It hurt. Logan was thick, and there hadn't been enough prep, and it burnt more than it felt good.

“That too fast for you?” Logan asked breathlessly.

“Non. Non, keep going, come on,” he whispered, voice hoarse and close to breaking, while rolling his hips in Logan's hold, not to pull him in any faster but to gain him another second or two to accustom. “Come on.”

Every little bit further felt like he couldn't possibly open up that much, but with shivers and moans and gritted teeth he did. The last bit, though, Logan dropped him, just opened his grip and let his own weight grind him down and for a second Remy couldn't breathe through the white-hot flash of pain. He was stretched tight and cramped up and there wasn't any room left inside his body for air.

His hand, still tugged in somewhere between skin and denim, found his own cock and stroked it frantically to ease the sting with pleasure. He forced his muscles to relax as best as he could, but it was all so much and he couldn't move, couldn't shimmy his way out of the hurt. Legs in the air, abs and arm quivering with the strain to hold himself from tilting backwards into the dash, he was trapped.

“Move. Please, gotta move, I can't-”

The first careful thrust of Logan's hips felt like relief. The muscles around Remy's ribcage opened up and he sucked in a deep breath. He let go of his cock and wrapped himself around Logan, face buried in his hair, and held on.

Logan set into a fast and shallow rhythm that didn't stutter. The open fly of his jeans pressed into Remy's skin, and something sharp and biting too, maybe the zipper, but he couldn't quite tell. He pressed his cheek against Logan's temple, listened to their accelerated breaths, tasted nothing but their own sweat in his mouth and then it all clicked into place and he went slack.

The dark space between them prickled with energy, like the hot pink glow of electricity that raised his skin into goose bumps, a place of perpetual heat after the sun had gone down. He knew he was shivering with the cold in his back; he knew his hands would be shaking were he to let go; he realized how their breathing fell into tune, Logan's ghosting hot and humid over his shoulder; and how the car rocked in time with their movement. He picked up a notion of the whole world he was set in, strangely aware of the blackening sky and the taste of the desert, even with his eyes shut and his lips pressed tight against Logan's neck. They were figurines in the center of a shaking Arizona snow globe.

But all that was background noise and nothing else, setting the scene to what mattered, the sweetest fucking pleasure right here. Logan got him just right and every stroke lit that nervous fire up brighter until it flashed along the insides of his thighs and curled his toes, and then Logan gripped his hair and pulled his head back, pulled his whole body into a trembling curve close to breaking, and one more thrust was all it took. The fire recoiled and Remy came with a cry on his lips, pulling Logan over the edge in his wake.

 

* * *

 

The night crawled under their skin before they disentangled. Remy's limbs moved slowly, muscles refusing to stretch, and Logan put his strong hands around his back in a caring gesture and eased him off.

“Ya good?” he asked and Remy laughed. Yeah, he was good.

They had a beer by the wayside, leaning against the hood. Remy blinked into the dirt-yellow cones that the headlights painted across the road and let the nail of his index finger slide across the edge of a Queen in his pocket. She was going to come back out sooner or later, but not yet. Not yet, when his heartbeat was still tangible in his fingertips, blood pounding viscid and sweet like molasses.

Logan collected a little dry wood and lit a campfire. They didn't talk much while they finished up the sixpack and then stretched out on the ground and took a few hours sleep.

By sun-up, Logan fucked Remy bent over the hood staring at his own reflection in the windshield.

Later, they stopped for breakfast at a run-down diner with coffee stained plastic sheets on the tables but the eggs still tasted like the best breakfast all year.

It didn't come as surprise when Logan never got back into the shotgun seat.

“You're going to Louisiana?” he said, not a question at all.

Remy nodded. “That right.”

Logan squinted into the sun and shook his head. “Swamps full of mosquitoes and nothing but that damn heat.”

“Only gets to show you ain’t never had a proper meal there,” Remy shot back, already in the car, ready to start her up.

“Suit yourself, Gumbo.” He put a cigar in his mouth, raised an eyebrow like some sort of goodbye and walked off. Remy smiled, turned the keys and pulled out into the other direction.

The Corvette devoured more miles of washed out wasteland, racing towards a brighter horizon. One hand on the steering wheel and elbow out of the window, the engine setting the rhythm to the radio's laid back blues, Remy was heading back home, a lucky man.


End file.
